In the entry hall, I check in at the reception and they direct me to take the elevator to the third floor. The elevator is another surprise. Whoever remodeled this lot has an impeccable sense of style and kept the old freight machine instead of opting for a new, shiny metal box that would’ve clashed with the retro, historical vibe of the structure. The interior has been refurbished to transport people with a polished casing, while the metal frame has a distressed paint effect easily recognizable as a design choice rather than spontaneous wear and tear. Admittedly, the journey to the top is on the slower side, but, hey, one can’t have everything.
Once the elevator stops, I step out on the small landing facing three doors. On my left, a double set of industrial metal and glass doors is half-open. Behind its panes, white desks equipped with monitors fill the space. The office seems already running and busy. A bronze plate informs me these are the headquarters of Inceptor Magazine. Never heard of it. Must be some kind of hip startup, judging from how young and trendy its working force looks.
In front of me, there’s a closed wooden door—less glamorous than the glass one but more practical, perhaps. And, on the left, Leslie is coming out of a similar, regular wooden door.
“Lucas.” Her bright smile falters as she spots me, and my heart sinks with a surefire realization: I’m too late. “I’m so sorry,” she says. “But I’ve just rented out the office I wanted to show you.”
My shoulders sag, and because I must be a masochist, I glance beyond the wide-open door to get a peek at the space I’m sure would’ve been perfect.
Instead, I catch sight of a woman in a red coat bent over the single piece of furniture in the room—a white desk—as she signs the lease to my dream office.
Oh, hell no!
I barge in. “Not you again,” I say.
The woman jolts and straightens up. She turns to me, holding the papers in one hand and the pen in the other.
Big brown eyes set on me with a glint of curiosity. “I’m sorry,” she says. “Do we know each other?”
“No, but you cut in front of me on the subway this morning, making me miss the train. Then you ate the last donut at Starbucks. And now you’re stealing my dream office.”
The woman in red doesn’t so much as blink. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. But I know that as of a minute ago, I’m officially leasing this space, which means you’re trespassing on private property.” She calmly replaces the cap to the pen and drops it on the table, brandishing her papers at me. “So, I suggest you show yourself out before I call the police.”
My mouth gapes open. It takes all my self-control not to utter any of the many rude retorts streaming through my mind.
The woman walks up to me and stops, adding, “If I could make a suggestion, though, screaming at strangers isn’t a super healthy way to cope with your frustrations. Maybe you should see a therapist about anger management.”
I glare at her. “I am a therapist!”
“Really?” She scoffs. “I presume you don’t help people deal with self-control, though.”
“I’m a couples’ therapist for your information.”
“Well, I hope this is not how you treat your clients.”
With one last haughty stare, she exits the office and entrusts the signed lease to Leslie, who stashes it away into the black leather folder she’s holding in her arms.
Then, to my utter surprise, they hug.
“Thank you, Lee,” the woman in red says. “This space will be perfect for my law practice.”
“Glad I could help.” Leslie smiles, and hands her evil client a set of keys. “These are officially yours.”
Sporting a smug smile, the donut thief walks back to the door and pointedly stares me down. I’m still in her office; I’ve been petrified in here ever since Medusa put her eyes on me. I let out one last, defeated scoff and storm out of her precious private property. She locks the door, gives Leslie another quick side hug, saying, “I’ll see you tomorrow.” And then she’s gone.
The moment the elevator disappears, I ask, “You know that witch?”
“Hey,” Leslie says. “Vivian is one of my best friends.”
Vivian. So, the Gorgon has a name. “What kind of law does she practice?”
“She’s a divorce attorney.”
A Marriage Terminator, why doesn’t that surprise me?
“I’m sorry she snatched up the corner office,” Leslie continues. “But I’m sure we can find you another place.”
“Leslie, please tell me you have something decent to show me today, right now. I only have a week left to move.”
I’ve only recently switched to Leslie as a real estate agent, since my old agency could not deliver, and it isn’t fair to put so much pressure on her, but I’m desperate.
“As it happens”—Leslie shifts the black leather folder to a one-arm hold, and uses her free hand to fish a fresh set of keys out of her bag—“the office next door is still available. But you should know all the lots in this building are going fast.”
She unlocks the middle door. “Not a corner office like you wanted, but it’s spacious and bright.”
I follow her inside and assess the space. Not bad. The back wall is made of windows, in the same distressed metal and glass theme I’ve seen around the entire building, and light pours in, leaving no dark corners. Still, compared to the office next door, this is a poor facsimile.
I close my eyes to remove from my mind any memory of the adjoining space. Instead, I concentrate on all the sad hovels I’ve visited in these past few months. When put into perspective, it’s a no brainer.
“I’ll take it,” I say to Leslie.
“Really? Wonderful! Sign the papers, and the lease is yours. You can move in right away. And, good news—the rent is lower for this office.”
I would’ve gladly forked over
